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Carot 



BY 

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Our God is Light — our God is Love ! 

In Him we are, and live, and move. 

Life, Love, and Light, 

Broke over all our world on Christmas night 



In a lowly cell 

Some peasants dwell. 

But their guest is the Angel Gabriel; 

And a rocky cave, 

Which the meek beasts gave. 

Houses and shelters One Mighty to Save. 



Poor is the spot 

In Judah 's lot, 

But David's city its King hath got 

And the simple swains 

On the hilly plains 

Of Bethlehem, listen to heavenly strains. 

Rude is the bed 

Where the cattle have fed, 

And the pillow of hay for the Royal Head. 

While Mary's hands 

Have fashioned the bands 

To swathe His form Who the world commands. 

Meek is the Maid, 

Sometime afraid, 

Yet in her bosom her Lord is laid. 

Lowliest she, 

In humility, 

Blessed forever her name shall be. 



Behold Him! this Child 

So gentle and mild, 

Clothed in humanity undefiled; 

An infant of days! 

Yet lost as we gaze 

In wonder, we worship, adore Him, and praise. 



A little space — 
Stand by, with reverent face — 
The glory of the Lord fills all the place; 
Now, in that scene of meekest majesty 
Behold one form of gentlest gifts and grace- 
She cometh, see — 
The mother of my Lord! Ah, whence is this to me ? 

Thou, whom hiera.rch addressing 

Called thee blessed, whence is thy blessing ? 

What the words thy bliss expressing ? 



Among the saints of Paradise she dw ells, 
Who shared the mystery of that birth divine. 

It may be many a holy tale she tells 
Of angel visitant and heavenly sign, 

And things to them and us on earth were sealed. 

Are in those blessed shades by converse sweet revealed. 

And near— if kindred thought stir realms above, 

If friend choose friend in all that loving throng- 
Nearest are they who know a mother's love; 

With her they muse, or, as they join in song, 
Those safe and happy prisons softly dim, 
Ring with the full glad strains of her own holy hymn. 

But we, who here remain. 

Who share thy pain. 

Sweet saint, for thou hast known 

Great sorrows for thine own; 

Who share in measure 

Thy heights of raptured pleasure; 

A mother's bliss, a mother's woe, 

For who has this, that too must know — 

We, too, v/ould learn of thee, 

And sharers of thy grace and wisdom be. 



We see the blessed Maiden now 
With lilies oa her breast and brow, 
Nor deem the soft, seraphic smile 
But fancy or the poet's wile; 
We can but think her fair and sweet 
Who was for such high honor meet. 

O, Wonderful, Mysterious Hour! 

Of that supreme, o'ershadowing Power! 

Still sealed from men's and angels' thought 

The secret then in silence wrought — 

We only know that fallen men 

Were raised and new created then. 

Perhaps the maid in holy calm 
Devoutly sang prophetic psalm; 
Perhaps her simple daily prayer 
Was rising on the hallowed air; 
What time the Angel's " Ave," near, 
At once awoke and soothed her fear. 

But perfectly to know God's will 

Was all her thought and care; and still 

A gentle peace, a holy rest 



Will fill the timid, troubled breast 
Of her who cries, with faith restored, 
' Behold the handmaid of the Lord! " 



Now, Mary, Mother, on thine arm 
Thy baby lies, and thou from harm 
Dost think His little form to keep, 
Dost lull Him to His quiet sleep. 
Thou knowest every little art, 
All tender pulses stir thy heart. 

So like all other mothers, thou; 
Thy babe like other babes — yet how 
Unlike, for this is free from sin. 
As fair without, so pure within, 
No naughty passion e'er shall trace 
Its marks upon that infant face. 

No germ of evil thought is there, 
No sinful lisp shall give thee care. 



In sweet obedience to grow 
Is His, — and thine His love to know; 
Conforming to thy soft behest — 
Oh! Mary, Mother, thou art blest. 

Yet many a mother, too, may dare 
To hope in kind that bliss to share. 
For God's unchanging word is given 
To send the Holy Ghost from heaven, 
To meet her at the sacred tryst 
And make her baby like the Christ. 

And sweet indeed it is to know — 
Though stormy gusts of passion blow, 
Though Satan and the world beguile. 
And fleshly lusts will still defile. 
Though sin the little soul must touch— 
His kingdom is made up of such. 

That Holy Child! —who can but dream 
At times of all those things that seem 
So briefly told in Holy Writ? 
With chosen comrade did he sit 
To learn at Jewish Rabbi's feet 
The lore of Jewish children meet? 



Or join to play, with childish grace, 

The children in the market-place? 

Perfect, yet perfectly a child, 

We are not by our dreams beguiled; 

To think He shared the thoughts and glee 

Of innocence and infancy. 

Yet many a hint in word and mien 
The thoughtful mother must have seen, 
And wondrous things she held apart 
And kept and pondered in her heart; 
Her Child by angel hosts adored 
She must have known to be her Lord. 

She must have seen the glory shine 
Upon that human face divine; 
A mother oft will think to see 
An earnest, tender gravity 
Within her baby's smile and eyes, 
Till in an ecstacy she cries: 

Where hast thou been? What hast thou seen? 
My pretty one, what doth it mean? " 



That look so clear, so calm, so cool, 
Like sudden depth of mountain pool; 
We thought to fathom ere we knew 
How far below the mosses grew. 



We turn — the prophet by the Lord 
Hath spoken of a piercing sword — 
A sword! — a cross! Ah! woe and pain 
For Him;— for her the torturing strain 
Of tenderest love and sympathy, 
Which to the human soul may be. 

And ever since, in every land 

The weeping Rachels throng and stand, 

And pierce the heavens through and through. 

If but to catch one faintest view. 

It is not this that layeth low, 

But ah! this sword, it cutteth so! 

Lift up your hearts— we lift them up— 
The while we taste the bitter cup, 



The while we mourn and miss our own, 
To Mary's child upon the throne — 
The rainbow round about appears, 
And smiles are mingled with our tears. 



The heart hath its own bitterness — 
Its secret grief doth not confess — 
Yet, doth its own peculiar joy, 
Its soft beatitude employ 
To Mary in the world of bliss, 
A solemn, sacred joy is this. 

The while she joins the ransomed throng 
Who swell the new, the glorious song; 
Adores the love which claims for brother 
Who do His will, for sister, mother, 
The while each high and holy theme 
Doth thought engage and lips beseem. 

She feels with rapture, deep and awed, 
What none can know but her and God — 



Who thus her low estate prefers — 
The Only Son of God is hers; 
Through her He was to us as well. 
To her, indeed, Immanuel! 



We sometimes draw the perfumed breath 
Of flowrets all too sweet for death, 
Or see some lovely passing view 
We fain would keep forever new, 
Or hear some softly floating strain 
Of notes we'd hold to hear more plain- 
Like these the love that's born with life, 
That e'er distraught by earthly strife, 
Encircles all its early years, 
And lives upon the smiles and tears 
Of childhood's brief and fleeting span; 
For, if the child became a man — 

Parental love hath varied range. 
Then comes the ripened interchange 



Of thought with thought, as friend with friend, 
Whose joys with memories sweetly blend, 
Yet are those tender dews exhaled 
Which in the early morn prevailed. 

Save only when her darling dies 
The mother smiles amid her sighs, 
And often in her keenest pain 
At thoughts she cannot well explain. 
Her brooding joy she loseth never, 
She hath her little child forever. 



Only, dear Lord, unto the end 
Our sealed treasure we commend 
To thee, who, if we wake or sleep, 
Our loved and thine will safely keep; 
And when Thou dost the gift restore. 
Our trials past, our sorrows o'er, 
With opened box of odors sweet, 
We'll fall to worship at Thy feet. 



At Jesus' feet — come roving thought, 
This magnet centre thou iiast sought, 
Nor tail through selt-distraciing care 
To point thy trembling index there; 
Let pains and joys and hopes ot thine. 
My soul, but lead thee to this shrine. 

At Jesus' feet! Yes! there we bow 
With Shepherds at the manger now; 
At Jesus' feet we'll worship when, 
With all the ransomed race of men, 
W ith all the hosts of heaven, we cry 
All glory be to God on High! 



LIBRflRY OF CONGRESS 




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